Let each day last.
Inertia — Nº148
Imagine each morning is a clean slate bathed in clear spring water, with yesterday’s mess being been wiped downstream to make way for a new palette. Early mornings are my favourite because everything feels still. Quiet. As if you’ve been granted a little time to muse and think about the emerging day you’ll only see once.
In our winters here, surviving sunlight barely flickers through casted blinds. Sometimes gold, often a dull hue. Either way, it paints itself across the walls, shouting, “Awake, awake!”.
We stumble out of bed, eager — or indifferent — to soaking up the possibilities of today but moving slowly nonetheless. The first sips of energy are always the sweetest. Nothing but aroma winding its way through your sleepy haze. Still shaking off the veil of dreams, you’re left with a blank canvas saying, “How will you paint your morning? Will you stretch, go for a walk, or simply enjoy as much as possible from the morning tea or coffee before going to work?”
I love writing in the morning as a way to slow down from the rush of getting up because you learn how to reflect, how to carry yourself lightly but be more aware of your patterns, and see if life is teaching you the same thing over and over because you’re just not absorbing it. The morning is when you set your levels, rules, and the standards you will uphold. And this is the most important moment to keep the relationship clear between you and the force that feeds you.
As our routine sets in, the ticking of the clock fades away as we immerse ourselves into familiar tasks and rigours: the walk under the empty trees, the clack of computer keys while words and ideas begin to develop, and the ruminating we do in the savoury simmers in the steam-scented kitchen.
Few people hold each moment gently as they should before placing it down to pick up the next. Time feels faster because we’re no longer enchanted by life like a child is about pebbles on a beach. The hours slip easily through cupped hands. The sands of time melt away. And before you know it, the sun casts its final glow.
As daylight begins to ebb, notice if you’re feeling a familiar pang of regret over missed chances and hurried instants. Remember that each new morning holds the promise of 24 blank pages yet to be written — and before you close your eyes, tell yourself this: let tomorrow unfold slowly, gently, with joy and purpose, so that when the last light fades, I will have filled the empty hours with meaning. And in this way, each fleeting day will last.
Life is like a big classroom, so what will you get out of it?